


Young Justice

by orphan_account



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (2012), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentin Quire's always been trouble, but Steve Rogers never realized just how much trouble he was until Kid Omega was pawned off on him in hopes to cure some his anarchistic delinquency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young Justice

“I’m sure you know why you’re here, Quire.”

“I’m positive I don’t.”

The look that Quentin Quire shot Captain America was the sort that would usually have ticked the soldier off. It represented everything that ran against what he stood for: insolence, anarchy, rebellion. The social revolution had come and gone — Steve Rogers had seen the rise and fall of communism and socialism, had helped dismantle the Nazi party and the Iron Wall, and watched patriotically as flags were burned by hippies and peace mongers, those that believed war was never the answer. As much as he wished he could believe that, Cap knew better than to think peace brought anything but more fighting eventually.

Quire was a remnant of what he had fought to eradicate. Between every conflict, every crisis, every change in regime, America had stood proud, bold, and beautiful. People like this, children or not, posed a significant threat to the security of the nation he held so dear.

They sat opposite one another, legs straddled over chairs. A short table separated them, a dark room that resembled a holding cell, though he made to pretence of making Quentin feel like he was caged. He was free to go at any time, but he hadn’t made a move yet, his eyes boring straight into the mask of the man. “Wolverine says you’ve been disruptive at the school again.”

A smirk tugged at the teen’s lips, as if proud of his accomplishments. “So he went running to the Avengers with his tail between his legs?”

“No, son,” Steve said sternly. “He came to me because he thinks you need to be dealt with. Before you become a serious risk to national security.”

The pink-haired youth pulled closer the chocolate bar sitting on the table, pulling at the wrapper. He didn’t speak until he had taken a bite, the sound of crunching candy and gnashing teeth the only thing in the room for a good long moment. “Do you know why he’s afraid of me?” he asked, voice callous and distant.

“He’s not afraid of you.”

Quire laughed, just once, taking another bite and swallowing heavily. “Who, Wolverine? He’s terrified of me. Thinks I’m a loose cannon, but he’s also naive enough to think he can get some _influence_ on me.” He narrowed his eyes on the Captain. “I know you’re not known for your brains, Captain, but surely you aren’t dumb enough to think you can _change_ me.” 

Patience was a virtue that Steve possessed in spades, but it ran thin on occasions such as this one. He remained firmly in place, his own eyes locked on Quentin’s, betraying no emotion on his face. “Nobody’s looking to force change on you, Quentin. I just want to help.”

“No, you don’t.” He paused, shaking his head shortly. “I don’t even need to read your mind to know it. You’re making it clear as day. What charges have you got on me, _Cap_?”

Steve pursed his lips, frowning. “Nobody’s going to arrest you.”

“Then tell your men outside to stand down. Who do you have out there waiting to do me in if I try anything funny? Iron Man? Miss Marvel?”

“ _Captain_ Marvel,” he corrected.

Taking another bite of the chocolate, Quentin set the bar down on the table before him, using the opportunity to crack his knuckles. The sound echoed through the hollow room, a series of quick, successive snaps, each louder than the last. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“We have reason to believe you’re in contact with the mutant terrorist Cyclops,” he relented, annoyed that he had to divulge anything at all, but over the years he’d learned that in order to learn something new, sometimes you needed to give up what you already know. “And, according to one of your fellow students, you’ve been spreading propaganda about his new school, trying to recruit from the inside.”

“Bullshit,” Quire spat, though his voice remained level. Despite the intensity of the exchange, neither man had so much as raised a brow too high. “And you know it.”

“I’ve been around this block before, son,” Steve responded, leaning in slightly. “I don’t know anything until I’ve got tangible proof in my hands that something’s true. And, so far, you’ve done nothing to convince me of your innocence.” 

“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” Quire said, still not changing his inflection. “You’re an outdated, idealistic superman preaching a doctrine of injustice, inequality, and intolerance towards anything different than you and your perfect race of Aryan superheroes and humans, no mutants allowed. You’re no better than the people you were made to defend us from, you—” 

He was cut off by the sharp sting of a backhand against his cheek. The blow took him aback, shaking him slightly, stunned into silence as he turned back to face Steve, who had risen to his feet, leaning over the table. “Choose your next words carefully, son.” Quire didn’t speak. He just spat. The glob of spit settled on Steve’s cheekbone, lips downturned in a scowl. Though he didn’t smack the mutant again, he seemed awfully close to doing so.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Quentin smirked. “So what are you going to do, rehabilitate me?”

“You need to learn some respect.”

“I’ve got respect,” he replied. “Just not for you.”

Steve’s fingers curled on the table and he pushed himself straight up. He began to amble around it, speaking as he did so. “I should teach you respect the way it was taught when I was your age.”

At that, Quentin let out the first genuine laugh he’d made that day. Deep, throaty, the sort that would have made his sides hurt had he continued much longer, but he actively restrained himself. “God, not you too. Let me guess, pants around my ankles, bent over your lap, a stiff hand to my backside?” He reached forward, politely picking up his candy bar and taking another nibble. “Logan’s tried that, too. Doesn’t work. Just works me up.” He glanced up, making eye contact with the Captain. “Sit down.”

He didn’t want to, yet something obliged Steve. He turned around, replacing himself in the chair, and the staring contest began yet again. It took him a moment to say anything. “You’re in my head.”

“Not entirely,” Quentin argued. “Just scratching the surface. Do you know why I asked for the Snickers, Cap?” he asked, quirking a brow, straightening against the back of his seat. “My mind’s so overrun with telepathy, my brain’s working at such a high capacity, that if I’m not constantly stimulating myself with _something_ I’m prone to crashing. So usually I eat. And if that’s not an option then, well, I like to pick people’s brains. Find out what makes them tick.”

Steve struggled. He could move, but it was a laborious process. “You shouldn’t be able to have any—” 

“See, that’s what I thought, too. Funny, isn’t it? You’re supposed to be incorrigible. But here you are, doing as I told you to do. I didn’t even have to use much influence. I think that means, um, that you’re a little bit more _submissive_ than you let on.”

“Son—” 

“Man, you’ve got some dirty thoughts in there. _The Hulk?_ Really?”

Captain America frowned. Quentin smirked. 

“And then there’s me. Looks like you aren’t the only one who gets a little worked up over corporal punishment.” The pink-haired mutant got to his feet, hands reaching to undo the zipper of his leather jacket, his jeans torn but hugging tight against his bony frame. “Do you ever let Iron Man top you or no?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder as he turned to hang his coat on the back of his chair. Beneath, he was wearing an off-white mesh muscle shirt, a little dirty, and the smell of body spray became more apparent, quickly filling the room with the musk.

Steve didn’t answer, keeping his eyes forward. He knew there was some influence on his mind, but he shouldn’t have been swayed — he was a fortress in his beliefs, mind impenetrable to even the most powerful telepaths and mind controllers. Charles Xavier could hardly get a word in edgewise, but here was one of his disciples doing so without struggle. “I didn’t think so. You’ve got an image to maintain, don’t you, Captain? The people’s protector? Wouldn’t want the people to know that they’re being saved by a guy who’s getting it up the ass from genius-playboy-douchebag Tony Stark. So, what’s that arrangement, then? Are you guys dating, or do you just fuck him?” When he was greeted only by silence, Quentin turned around, leaning on the back in his chair, grinning. “Bet you wish you could ask him to return the favour.” 

“I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing at,” Steve interjected, glaring.

“I’m not playing anything,” Quire said, shrugging. “I took my claws out of your brain a good… oh, minute and a half ago? You could have come over here, taken a swing at me, my back was even turned. You didn’t, though. You didn’t move a muscle. Why is that? Because you know it’s all true?” He craned his neck up, but couldn’t see what he wanted over the table. Instead, he crossed around, coming close to Steve, who forced himself to not move. “There we go. Look at that. Hard as a rock. Even in spandex. Don’t you hate that feeling? It’s like rubbing against a basketball.”

Keeping his eyes forward, Steve leaned back slightly in his chair. He’d remained still, even after Quentin had told him it had all been in his own mind, the paralysis, just waiting for an opportunity. The pink-haired boy took a step too closed, and he reached out, his hand moving for the tent that had been pitched in his costume, and Steven Rogers reached out, firmly taking hold of the boy’s wrist, pulling him down against the table.

There was a smack as the body hit against the wood, and a screech as his chair fell back. Steve stood, now towering over the boy in his grasp, holding him by just the one wrist, but Quentin didn’t seem to be afraid, or even angry, he just leaned awkwardly against the table, letting himself be pinned. “Don’t worry, Cap, secret’s safe with me. But it’s gonna cost you.”

“I’m not about to be blackmailed by some juvenile delinquent.” 

Quentin smirked. “I’m not _juvenile._ I’m eighteen.” The grip on the telepath’s wrist tightened. “And I’m not looking for money, either. I think I can come up with… mutually agreeable terms for my silence.” He went quiet briefly, but then spoke again. “Oh, don’t think you’re in power here. I can get back in your head faster than you can blink. _Let go._ ” 

On cue, he did. Quire’s wrist was released and he straightened up, just a few inches shy of the imposing figure cut by the man a few inches from him, and likely a third of the weight. Still, he didn’t seem to be the slightest bit intimidated. Steve flexed the muscles of his fingers, trying to wrestle control before he could, but the influence was in and out of his mind in an instant. Imperceptible if he hadn’t known it was there. “I’m not asking for much,” Quire continued, dusting himself off. “I just want to stick my pork sword up your bun.” He lowered his head, nodding in the direction of the bulge in Steve’s costume. “And give you a hand with that. Based on what I saw, you were already picturing it in your mind. Why don’t we make that dream a reality?”

Without waiting for an answer, Quire undid the button of his jeans, sliding them to his ankles. Underneath the skinny, tight-fitting denim, he wore bright pink underwear, nearly matching the colour of his hair. It was less noticeable than Steve’s, but Quentin was clearly packing heat at that moment, and he seemed eager to be rid of it. 

He had begun removing his shirt, revealing the skinny, lithe frame hidden beneath, when Steve finally said something. “I never said yes.”

“If you were going to say no, you would have done it before the pants even came down,” Quentin argued, letting the muscle shirt drop to the ground between them. “I already know there are no cameras. Nobody even knows we’re here—I don’t even know where _here_ is. No risk, big reward, and nobody knows you’re a sadomasochist in the bedroom. I’m basically giving you a freebie here, Cap. So, whaddaya say?”

Steve had to consider it — really, truly consider it. These weren’t surface level thoughts, as Quentin had made it seem. These were deep, heavily guarded secrets. The sort he denied to anybody who would ask him directly, kept under lock and key to prevent anything like this from happening. He knew he was acting of his own accord, this was his own will, he was hard by his own desire. Before him stood a scrawny, almost sickly, mutant telepath with more power than he could ever fathom, it was like every awful repressed fantasy he’d even conjured. The words escaped his lips before he could stop himself. “Get on your knees, punk.”

Quentin dropped like a fly, the sound of the impact actually managing to startle him, how quickly and readily he fell. Almost instantly there were hands cupping his thick, muscular thighs, in stark contrast to the bony figure beneath him. Steve’s shield was already hung on the wall behind them, but he cinched his hands around his waist, pulling up the top half of his skin-tight costume. As he pulled it away, he showcased the plethora of biceps, abs, and chest he had accrued since taking the super serum. Quire’s hands fastened around the seam of the leggings, and without waiting pulled them down, catching around the bulge. 

The thick, veiny cock popped free of its confines, ten inches induced with the help of the serum, and nearly as thick as a soda can. “I can see why he doesn’t let you bottom,” Quentin muttered, voice quiet. His hands had found a groove just beneath the fold of his ass, using it as leverage to hold him in place. His lips didn’t immediately seek to take in the monster before him. Instead, he placed his lips a few inches above, just beneath Steve’s navel, nuzzling against the blonde peach fuzz that formed a treasure trail down to the prize below. 

He kissed, surprisingly tenderly, a line down Steve’s stomach, through his waist, finally to the pelvis, chin resting atop the curved cock. It wasn’t even fully hard, still working up the strength to straighten up, though had reached its full length and girth. One of Quentin’s hands rounded his body, taking it in his palm, and rubbing it slightly. “Those tabloid photos of you suntanning in Venezuela are fake, then?” he said, mostly to himself, as he leaned away, straightened out the limb. Only then did his lips find the tip, slowly opening around them, taking it the first inch of the head. 

His tongue trailed along the uncircumcised tip, and with his hand pulled back to release the foreskin, dampening the skin beneath. Steve’s knees quaked, but he held steady. His hand found the back end of the fauxhawk worn by the mutant student, gripping it tightly in his big hands, not worrying about whether it stung or not. “Deeper,” he commanded, pushing him in.

Teeth dragged against the shaft, but Quentin was quick to remedy this by widening his jaw further, trying to fit the whole thing into his mouth, but the girth was impressive. Steve had never met somebody able to do more than the first three inches or so—after that, it became a mess of sputters and apologies and complaints that he was too big. 

To his credit, Quentin made no complaints. It was clear he had wanted this perhaps more than Steve himself did — it was the only explanation that made sense, why he would go through all this trouble. He greatly doubted there would be much more taken in the petite mouth, but at least there wouldn’t be a row about it after. The student just kept resolving to take in more. His jaw must have been close to snapping, having to take in the full girth, and with the added length it only caused soreness and pain than pleasure. But for Steve, it was like sweet relief. The boy knew what he was doing with his tongue. Even if he couldn’t take the whole thing, he would pull himself off and use his hands to please him, and his tongue would slip under the foreskin to massage and tease. More than once, Steve had to force himself to hold back, even if he knew he’d be ready for a round two immediately afterwards.

When he’d had his fill of the attempt at cocksucking, he sured up his grip on Quire’s head and pulled him up forcefully, pushing him back onto the table. The boy willingly fell back, splaying his arms out, and spreading his legs apart. “Don’t forget— _I’m_ fucking _you_ ,” he teased, but still tilted his head back without protest.

“I’m allowed to see what I’m working with,” Steve countered, and once in position, his hands found the elastic of Quentin’s underwear and pulled them clean off. His cock throbbed up, red and swollen at the tip from the excitement. He was just barely six inches, body completely hairless, marked only by tattoos and, to Cap’s surprise, a piercing, barely noticeable, on the scrotum, separating his ass from his testicles. “And I think we can both take our turns.”

Quentin smirked. “I need to go first. Once you’re done with me, I’ll never walk again.”

“Fair enough,” Steve responded, stepping closer once again. He lifted his cock above the table, laying it against Quentin’s leg. There was no tenderness, no passion between them. He wasn’t about to lean in and kiss the boy — he was going to get what he wanted, what they both wanted, and be done with it. His hands drew up the boy’s body, reaching his neck. One hand tightened around the windpipe, not quite choking, but holding firm. “Roll over, soldier.”

On command, Quentin drew himself up, shimmying free of Cap’s hands, and got on all fours. He lowered his chest down against the table, keeping his waist in the air, sticking his ass out. Steve’s hands ran along the supple cheeks, thumb grazing over the crack, before lashing out and slapping one of the cheeks. Quentin let out a muffled grunt, and his body concaved once again, pressing himself against the table. Without waiting, Cap slapped him again, leaving a painted red mark against the pale white skin. “Good boy,” he said, his eyes running along the naked body before him, taking in the sight of the large tattoo inked on the boy’s back, an intricate design of the mutant X-Gene. 

He shifted his hand placement, two fingers over each cheek, rubbing the sensitive skin of his ass. Steve stuck his middle finger down, pressing just barely into the boy’s hole. He felt the sphincter tighten and close up, and he pulled away before being trapped, delivering a third, incredibly sharp slap on the boy’s backside. He brought his cock up, pulling the boy closer and rubbing the shaft along the cheeks, holding the position at the top, allowing a stray drop of precum to drip down his exposed cock, rolling past the foreskin and resting finally in the crack of Quentin’s ass. 

The boy was like an obedient servant, each move countered by one equally as enticing and pleasing. It had started as a game of cat and mouse in which he was most assuredly the cat, but it had transformed into something much more — a battle of dominance and power between the two, but it had been made clear who really held the authority in the situation. Captain America might outrank a civilian, but it was mob rule in the interrogation room.

Still, he enjoyed being able to do this. As he pulled himself away, he laid another heavy smack on the reddening cheeks. Quentin moaned, head buried in his arm, straightening out his back at the impact. Steve crouched slightly as the ass perked higher up in the air, both hands choosing one side of the boy’s hips to grip. He saw the shine of the metallic stud in the scrotum and brought his lips to it, tonguing the ring, tugging on it gently. His mouth turned up, and with each passing inch he whet more and more of the boy’s hole, digging deep as he reached the puckered pink ring, spreading the cheeks apart and digging his tongue in.

Quentin pushed himself back into the sensation, relaxing the muscles in his body, breathing becoming more difficult as time passed. One hand pulled away and smacked him in the crook of the thigh and the ass cheek, causing him to grunt. For a moment, he seemed to struggle at steadying himself, and after a few seconds he seemed to be trying to turn himself over. “Get on your back, Cap. I’m not gonna blow before I get my shot to breed you.”

Their eyes met, both narrowed in mutual, fleeting respect, and the Captain straightened himself up. They traded placed, Quentin turning around and Steve pulling himself onto the table. It creaked beneath his added weight, but he had a gut feeling it would hold. With an exhale, he laid back, legs dangling over the edge of the table. His ass, meaty and plump, pressed into the moulding. Quentin was tall enough to reach, he gathered, as the boy placed himself between his spread legs. The size difference was gargantuan between them, but the smaller man was infinitely more confident with the tools at his disposal. “Legs up,” he commanded, though it was Steve who acted of his free will, without any added mind control from the telepath. He brought both his legs up, pulling his knees to his chest, and lifted his head to look at the boy about to fuck him, the swollen member pounding with anticipation.

The boy forced him to wait an added moment as he scooped down to grab something from his pocket — a condom, which made Steve question if sex had always been in the cards for that day, or if he just always came prepared. He ripped open the wrapper and quickly slipped it over his length, repositioning himself. “Oh, by the way,” he said, hands cupping the supple, soft cheeks of Steve Rogers’ ass, spitting down into the upturned hole. The side of his cock, rather than his fingers, rubbed in the lube on the surface, not quite dry humping the man beneath him. “I’m not easing you into this. I’m a bit of a glutton for punishment.” 

He smirked down at Steve and used a hand to place the tip at the base of his hole, waiting only a second before slamming it in. It wasn’t large, at least not by comparison, but Steve hadn’t been expecting anything so forceful. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself this pleasure, his body wasn’t used to it. He tightened his hole, rather than letting it form around Quentin, but he felt the subtle nods of the telepath’s influence immediately kicking in to help relax him. His head dug back into the table, gritting his teeth. Quire wasted no time in building up a solid rhythm, each fuck more forceful than the last, each one aimed in a different direction, looking to make contact with the man’s prostate, not quite reaching it on any attempt — still, the feeling of being fucked brought back old emotions, old pleasures, and they flooded him with euphoria. 

“Harder,” he begged, conveying it in just the one word. 

Quentin grinned, holding no punches. He had a mission and a purpose, and he was ready to fuck Steve raw. Something told him the boy wanted the favour returned afterwards, that the cry for dominance over the larger man was just the tip of the iceberg. 

As the thrusts grew faster and more forceful, Quentin pulled himself up onto the table, pushing up Steve’s legs and holding his calves over his shoulders. The angle of his fucks changed, drilling down instead of straight out, and the change was significant enough to make accessible the Captain’s prostate, and he made it well known that he had found it by letting out a deep whimper mingled with a moan. It only made Quentin smirk wider and dig deeper, sweat beads forming at his forehead and coating his body in the sticky substance. His hands were gripping Steve’s shoulders, holding their bodies together and preventing himself from falling, as Steve jerked himself to and fro, swelling as the cum threatened to burst forth. 

They seemed to reach their climax at the same time, Quentin running out of steam, but Steve just raring to go. Hot strips of cum shot forth from his cock, coating Quentin’s chest and stomach from his position, dripping back down onto Steve’s body. He could feel the release in his ass, even through the condom, and the thrusts continued a few moments longer, but the boy was no superman. He was spent, and when he pulled out Steve could see why — the condom was filled with cum, and the frothy white milk was seeping over the edged, leaving a trail coming from his ass.

Both panting, they remained still a moment longer, not quite looking at one another but admiring each other’s handiwork. Quentin seemed to be debating how fast he could pull the rubber off, get into his clothes, and return to the Jean Grey School, but Steve had other ideas. His hands formed around the boy’s waist, holding him there. In an instant, he was sitting, and then standing, and he lifted Quentin up. Though there was a spark of protest in him, he seemed to give up rather quickly. Steve turned around, sitting himself on the lone chair still standing in the room, bringing the boy down with him. His cock throbbed still, and both of their members, size difference and all, pressed together from the position they were in. Steve pulled off the condom slowly, letting the cum slick down Quentin’s cock, some of the residuals falling onto his. 

He reached forward, massaging them together, coating them with the sticky substance. It wasn’t adequate enough for lube in small doses, and even with the amount it was not much better, but he wasn’t looking to cushion this blow. One assured he was nice and wet, both hands returned to the X-Student’s waist and lifted him up, sliding him back down on the tip.

Much like getting sucked off, he’d never met anybody capable of taking him all in, but Tony Stark had proven to be the one person who came closest, and that was after months of experimentation, trying different positions and making him accustomed to the feeling. Quentin took to it like a fish in water, though — he screamed, a beautifully euphoric scream, as the bare tip sunk into his hole, returning the favour of not easing him in, though there was a certain necessity to it.

The hole opened up for him the deeper he went, Quire’s whole body relaxing, shaking, moaning, nails digging into Steve’s shoulders as he slipped further and further down, going faster and faster as the inches dragged on, until finally — “Fucking _Christ_ ,” Quentin moaned, leaning himself forward, stomach convulsing on him. “Fuck you.” There was a darkness in his voice, but also a pleading. _Fuck me_ , it was saying.

Steve was happy to obliged. Securing the waist, Steve pulled Quentin up and immediately forced him back down. As he raised him the second time, amidst groans and protests, Quentin struggled to bring his legs up into more of a squat, giving him some leeway in the movements and decisions, but not much more. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you— _oh god_ ,” he moaned, pushing himself up and down, voice catching in his throat.

Beneath them, the chair creaked, but they paid it no mind as the fucking commenced. Even as he thrust, Steve could feel the swelling beginning, blood vessels working hard to repair the tissues being damaged. He just kept going, harder, faster, stronger. Getting fucked was his desire, maybe, but it only made him harder and eager for another go. The chair gave way with a loud snap, and Cap fell to the ground, back hitting hard against the solid flooring. It still didn’t stop them — if anything, it made it easier. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Quentin moaned, finding a firm footing and using it to pump himself up and down, and with his body straightened, Steve could raise his hips up into the tight hole, feeling the burning sensation in his testicles, and his stomach tightening as climax was imminent. 

Quentin came first, a second time. More feeble in this attempt, the dregs of the first mixed with new invigoration. It scattered on Cap’s chest, barely reaching his nipples, but he kept working through it. He took total control of the situation, taking all of Quentin’s power from him and leveraging himself deeper and deeper into the boy’s body until finally — 

“Oh god,” the boy whimpered, and his whole body seized for a moment as rope upon rope entered into his body, coating and painting his insides with the warm substance. He struggled for breath, and even Steve felt a little bit lightheaded. Once again, they both sat there in a stunned, awkward silence, Steve more capable of continuing the fuck after the release than Quentin had been. Neither complained, the movements slowed and made almost more tender, less urgency in the gyrations. 

Steve helped Quentin remove himself, ass swollen, legs barely able to work. He fell forward, laying himself just on top of the Captain. It was strangely intimate, which neither of them wanted, but neither were in the position to move. Raw asses, coated in cum, and while they weren’t being watched or patrolled, they were still in the middle of a crowded building, with the closest washroom a floor away, with likely dozens of people separating here from there. It occurred to Steve that perhaps this was a bad idea, one that he hadn’t given much forethought to, but he pushed those thoughts into the back of his brain, screwing his eyes shut and trying to ignore the reality of it all.

“Well,” Quentin said, in the same bored tone as always. “You’re better than Wolverine is, at least.”

They remained in silence for a few moments. “Don’t think this gets you off scott-free, son,” he said, resuming the professional tone from before, despite the compromised position. “You’re fraternizing with known terrorists. Wanted mutants. You aren’t innocent by any means.”

“None of us are innocent, Cap,” Quentin said, pulling himself up, apathetic.

“I think I’m going to place you on probation, Quire,” Cap said, following suit. He sat up, wincing as he applied pressure to his tailbone. “Community service. For the next six months, you’re going to be working alongside the Avengers. Learning about patriotic and civil duty.” He could almost see the boy retching, even with his eyes closed. “Until you learn how to respect authority, I’m officially designating you as my assistant. Welcome to the Avengers, son. You’d better learn something.”

“You think I want to do your bitch work?” Quire asked, sounding mildly disgusted. He seemed to want to stand but unable to, given the circumstance.

“You don’t have a choice.” Cap looked over, face pulled stern and serious.

Quentin Quire smirked. Wide, devilish, almost disarmingly charming. “I’m glad we see eye to eye,” he responded promptly. “Because I don’t think you have a choice in being my bitch, either. Don’t think this makes us square, because it doesn’t. I’ve got enough dirt on you to destroy the Avengers with one press conference.” Steve remained stoic. “So how about you be a good Captain and get on all fours. I think I owe you a couple smacks.”


End file.
